Routine
by chocokat13
Summary: She loves him, and he loves her, and it's a hot mess but it's them. It's perfect. What a day in the life of Eli and Clare would look like in the future as he battles his disorder. One-shot.


**Author's Notes: I haven't written anything in so long, and I actually wrote this story three years ago but never published it. This story was meant to show what Eli and Clare's future may look like as they deal with his disorder on a daily basis. Enjoy.**

At 6:36 AM, Clare rises from their bed, having to untangle herself from his arms. She steps straight into the shower, using cold water to wake herself up. They never shower together since the hot water he uses burns her skin, and the cold water she uses makes him whine.

At 6:52 AM, Clare slips on her robe and starts a pot of coffee. She can barely stand the stuff, but she knows he will be too lazy to make it himself and be crabby all day. She reaches into the fridge and finds a carton of eggs — there are only three left; she'll have to buy more — and the bacon. She hates how much fat is contained in the bacon, and she is always terrified of being burned when frying it, but he likes eating meat with every meal. He boasts that eating so much must make him strong, and she laughs and teases him by squeezing his biceps and pointing out that there is no muscle there.

At 7:14, Clare sets their plates on the table. She knows it would be best to just eat her food and then go to work, but she knows he hates when she leaves him alone without announcing that she is leaving — even though he is always irritated when woken before noon. Plus, she likes when they eat meals together; it reminds her that she doesn't live alone.

So at 7:15, Clare quietly walks back into their bedroom and lies beside his huddled, still form. She drapes one arm over him and pushes herself up to lean over him just a little. She brushes his hair away from his ear and replaces his locks with her lips.  
"Good morning sunshine," she whispers, making sure to keep her voice low or else he might jolt awake and lash out at her.  
"Two more minutes," he mumbles, and she chuckles.  
"You can sleep later, after I leave. I just want to make sure you eat," she tells him, and he turns his body to look up at her through his sleepy eyes. Quickly, she justifies her actions, saying, "You don't eat as much lately. I just want you to stay healthy."  
He reaches a hand up slowly, pushing her bangs out of her eyes and says nothing.

At 7:21, after more pleading, the couple sits at their tiny table in the kitchen. The room is filled with a thick, heavy silence that Clare has grown used to by now. She pushes the small pieces of leftover eggs around her plate as she listens to the crunch of bacon being chewed. She sets her fork down gently onto the cheap paper plate and rests her cheek in her hand, propping her elbow up on the table. Her eyes assess the purple bags under his own and how slowly his jaw moves as he chews, as if it requires so much effort.  
"How are you feeling?" she asks him, and he stops chewing.  
He stays frozen for a second, swallows, and then mutters, "Fine."  
She sighs, but regrets it when he narrows his eyes at her. "I'm trying," he tells her bitterly, and the coldness in his tone makes her shiver.  
"I know," she whispers.

At 7:31, Clare stares down at the phone in her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. Her boss is usually understanding of her situation, and she never questions Clare anymore when she calls in saying she has to stay home. Her fingers begin to delicately press the numbers, starting to dial her work number, but she pauses. He is in one of his downswings; as much as she worries about leaving him by himself, she knows he would prefer it. Plus rent needed to be paid, and Eli didn't seem like he was going back to work at the bookstore anytime soon.  
So she stands up from her bed and changes into clean, ironed clothes, then grabs her brown leather briefcase. She sends the same text to Adam, Imogen, and Fiona, asking them to each call Eli every once in a while (if she calls, he will know she is checking up on him and become agitated). She combs through her curls and takes in a long, slow breath. "He'll be fine," she tells herself, but with him, she can never be sure.

At 7:44, Clare steps out of her room to see him sitting at his desk, his computer on and glowing dully in the darkness of the room. She wants to open the blinds and bring sunlight into their quaint apartment, but he will complain that the light creates a glare on his screen. So instead, she walks through the darkness and comes up behind him. She places her hands on his shoulders; his eyes don't shift from his computer. His body stays just as still, and she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek.  
"I'll be back in the evening," she tells him. She pauses. "I love you," she whispers. She waits a few moments, hoping he'll say it back. When he doesn't, she sighs and leaves, closing the door quietly behind her and proceeding into a day of worry and anxiety.

At 5:56 PM, Clare finally stumbles out of the disgusting city bus, her heel-clad feet landing firmly on the cement. Her feet scream in protest and send bolts of aching pain up her legs, but she doesn't give herself a moment to hesitate as she speed-walks home. Fiona and Adam had both called her back with good reports, but when Imogen had tries to call him at five, he hadn't picked up. Clare, whose shift was supposed to have ended by that time, had been thrown into a panic and couldn't focus on anything but getting home to him.  
At last, she reaches the top floor of the building and unlocks the apartment door. Papers are torn and strewn across the floor. His laptop's screen is bent as far back as it can go without breaking. Pillows have been thrown across the room, pencils snapped out of frustration. A shattered blue vase is scattered throughout the room. She carefully steps over any debris in her path and calls out his name tentatively. She steps into the kitchen to find him sitting at the table, his eyes glued to the clock on the stove.  
"You're late," he murmurs, his form unmoving.  
She hurries to the fridge, pulling out a container of leftover spaghetti and placing it in the microwave. "Dinner will be ready soon," she assures him, relief flooding through her.

At 7:12, Clare sits in front of their television. One of her hospital dramas is on, and after a long day, she wants nothing more than to unwind in front of the television. There's something about getting lost in a TV drama that makes her forget about her own. She's changed into her pajamas already, her curls having turned into a frizzy mess. To her surprise, Eli falls down beside her, his eyes fixing on the TV. Two doctors are arguing, but in a way that Clare knows will end up with them having sex. Slowly, she begins to reach for Eli's hand which was resting on the couch beside hers, but he retracts, his arms folding over his chest, his gaze never wavering once from the television. Clare bites back a sigh and tries to invest herself in the show once more.  
"This is stupid," Eli says suddenly, in a voice much louder than Clare is used to.  
She purses her lips. "I like it," she says.  
"There's no realism. No purpose. It's overdramatic, and over-cliché, and—"  
"Enough!" Clare explodes. "I'm so tired of this!" She stands up from the couch, glaring down at him and becoming infuriated when his gaze still won't meet hers. "Why do you have to be like this?" When he doesn't look at her, she shrieks, "Eli!"  
"You know why," he utters, and his voice is back to being monotone and dull.  
"Stop that!" she cries, dropping to her knees before him and grabbing his shoulders. "Come back! Love me! Eli, come back, please!" He says nothing, even as she begins to shake his shoulders and cry.  
After a minute, her hysterics subdue, and she just stares at him. "I hate you," Clare whispers, and she feels Eli's stiff posture slacken under her palms. Encouraged by this reaction, she repeats, "I hate you." She sees something flash in his eyes, a wild, pained emotion that hurts her to see. But she still continues. "I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" She can see Eli's face crumbling, crippled by her words, and she feels joyous at seeing him _feeling_ again.  
Then, his face hardens, and Clare begins to feel dread once more. He rises from his seat and he finally looks down at her. He appraises her, the way she is down on her knees, hope still shining in her eyes. He scoffs, "You're pathetic" and leaves the room.  
Clare stares blankly at the spot where he had been standing, tears brimming in her eyes as she hears the door to their bedroom close.

At 10:54 PM, Clare is relieved to find that their bedroom door is not locked. She turns the knob and pushes it open, stepping into the dark room and making her way over to the bed. His form is still, too rigid for him to actually be asleep under those covers. She pulls back the sheets on her side, carefully getting under them.  
"Eli?" she whispers, but her hope has long since died out, and she doesn't expect an answer. When she gets no reply, she lies down, turning her back to him and feeling hollow. She swears she hears a shaky intake of breath, the kind that vibrates with feeling, the kind you make when tears have been falling from your eyes. Clare squeezes her eyes shut and has to stop herself from murmuring an apology.

At 2:03 AM, Clare is woken by shouts, and her tired eyes try to frantically search the room, as if they don't already know the source of the noise. At last, they fall on Eli, whose body is shaking, his mouth opening as he emits silent screams. Stomach wrenching, she reaches for him, leaning in to repeat his name in his ear.  
"Eli, Eli," she pleased. "It's not real; it's a dream, only a dream. Wake up, sweetheart, wake up, Eli."  
It takes a long while, so long that she has to shake him awake to make some progress. His shouts increase in volume as he jolts awake, and even through the blackness, Clare can see how wild he is. His shouts begin to die down and turn to whimpers when he realizes he is in reality again, and he finally looks at Clare. She gives him a breathless, reassuring smile and leans forward to wipe the under of his eyes, collecting his tears on her fingers.  
"I love you," he says, his voice cracking, and she is surprised.  
"I love you too," she replies, and she extends her arms to invite him in for an embrace. He moves toward her, but rather than let her hold him, he brings his lips heatedly to hers. Her eyes close automatically, relishing in their closeness. He hastily pushes her onto her back, and she never lets their lips break, even though she knows that she needs to breathe. She has to enjoy this while she can before it all ends soon.  
Clothes are shed, lips and fingers moving along hidden curves and eliciting soft sighs from the both of them. In the cold night, their bodies come together to make heat, to make a passion Clare has long since forgotten. She loves him, and he loves her, and it's a hot mess but it's _them_. It's perfect.

At 5:27 AM, their warm bodies are still pressed together under the covers. Her fingers have been running through his hair for God knows how long, but he's sleeping soundly now, she doesn't stop. His head rests on her chest, his arm draped across her torso, and she hasn't felt this loved in so long. She wonders if that's a bad thing (probably). She knows that she needs to get some rest instead of thinking so much, but she doesn't want to fall asleep and lose this. Lose him.

At 6:36 AM, Clare prepares to repeat this entire routine over again.


End file.
